


Sherlock’s Second Biggest Fan

by Chibidemon15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kinda Dark, Mentally unstable villian, Multi, Oh and Mycroft's umbrella, Post-Reichenbach, also alot of lurve, uh, which is now a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibidemon15/pseuds/Chibidemon15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OK, so basically John has gotten himself kidnapped (again), and even though he’s dead, it’s STILL Sherlock’s fault. Also, it’s by this bat-shit-crazy fan boy who probably collects locks of Sherlock’s hair. Just his luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So we’re gonna try to be serious for once and write this fic and add all the drama and angst and pain we can. 
> 
> This is a big step for us so please leave a comment.
> 
> Also, on a side note, this crazy guy is actually based off of one us. Scary right?
> 
> Enjoy!

     "There is a method to my madness," the man cooed, sliding a blade up the thigh muscle of the victim below him, scraping the bone underneath. He carved a deep, red trail into the man’s leg. Once he reached the hip, he twisted the blade and pulled it out roughly, splattering the already blood-soaked floor. The poor thing jerked at the pain, rattling the chains that bound him to the wall. The man sighed, already disappointed in how weak this creature was.  
     

     "Now now, dearie. Don't make this harder than it already is," the man snarled while slapping his victim across the face, insincerity in his voice. When his victim gave a choked sob through gritted teeth, he gently stroked the broken man’s face with the flat of the knife, following the curve of his jawline and pushing up under his chin, forcing the man to meet his eyes. He softened his voice to a more sing-song lit. “Shh, shh, no need to be cross, deary. I don’t want to hurt you, I truly don’t. But I LOVE Sherlock, so much that it sometimes hurts!” It was then that the madman flicked the knife under the man’s chin, making a small cut that was nothing compared to what the he had already endured. “Except Sherlock won’t ever love me back if you’re still alive. Poor wretched creature. So sorry it’s going to end like this. NOT!” Here the madman gave a cackle, clutching his sides in glee.  
     

     The trembling man on the dirt-encrusted floor let out a humorless, choked laugh that could not be heard over the madman’s off-key giggling. Grunting in pain from the many lacerations and burns on his body, the broken man struggled to his knees. Locking eyes with his captor, he told the lunatic the truth, hoping it would break the madman like it broke him so long ago.  
     

     “Sherlock Holmes is dead! He’s been dead for the last three years. Sorry to burst your bubble, but you REALLY missed the boat on that one. Looks like you went through all this trouble for nothing,” he sneered. For a moment, surprise flashed across the psycho's face before it was replaced by suspicion. After a stare down that lasted a few minutes and weakened the broken man considerably, the lunatic broke into another round of hysterical laughter.  
     

     “Wha-?”  
     

   "Oh, this is _priceless!_ ” he giggled, “Oh sad, pitiful John Hamish Watson. The man you love, and don’t bother denying it, has spent the last three years lying to you!” he howled, eyes wide as he cackled, a deranged smile contorting his face. “Did you actually believe HE was dead? How could you have so little faith in a man so great as Sherlock Holmes?” He sighed a little, a dreamy look coming over his features. He completely ignored John, who was still kneeling on the dirty floor, gasping for air with a body he wasn't even sure worked anymore.  
     

     “What did you say?” His voice sounded strange to his own ears, hoarse from hours of screaming and underlined with a tone of confusion from the news he just received.  
     

     “You really are an idiot!” He shouted, joy turning into blind rage in seconds. “God, how could Sherlock - beautiful, perfect Sherlock - love something as decrypted and brainless as you. He’s ALIVE, you disgusting beast. And he let you believe he was dead, for the last three years! He happily watched as you sunk deeper into depression, until you were sitting there with that gun of yours asking if it was worth it anymore. You’re too weak to bear Sherlock’s love. I, on the other hand, am so much stronger than you. I can take whatever that marvelous man throws at me and I won’t break like you have.” John did not want to listen anymore, did not want to be in that dark building where he had spent endless days in agonizing pain. He wanted to forget the pain and torture. He wanted to hunt down Sherlock BLOODY Holmes and kick the ever-loving shit out of him. He was going to beat some sense into that heartless man until he understood he was to never, EVER, leave John again. He realized that he was blatantly sobbing now, tears dripping down his weathered face, automatically curling up on himself. But after days of having to deal with John’s tears, it all sounded the same to the madman. He assumed that John had taken the final step over the edge of a metaphorical cliff into insanity. Because of the madman’s one mistake, one little misunderstanding, John would live to see another day. To the crazy guy who was cutting him to ribbons, losing a loved one to death was horrible, but having the person you loved reject you outright would be worse. And the madman was so insane that he wanted Sherlock broken so that he would understand his own pain. Then, when Sherlock was nothing but a beautiful, empty shell, he would swoop in as his guardian angel and build him back up just the way he wanted.  
     

     “I think I've changed my mind!” The cheerful voice brought an end to John’s thoughts, startling him so badly that he ended up using what little energy he had left to jump backwards, toppling over. He opened his mouth to question the psychopath, but nothing came out and the man spun on his heels, prancing away. John was afraid for a moment that the man was leaving again, forcing John to suffer through hunger and his infected wounds. Instead the man went to a small cabinet that John had failed to notice before as he had been otherwise occupied. It must have been magical, he reasoned in his delusional state. While skipping back towards John, the man held up a syringe filled with a clear liquid.  
     

     “Now my sweet darling, I need you to hold still~! And when I’m done, everything will be better!” His teeth glinted in the dim light as the man jabbed the needle into John’s arm. John flinched against the slight pain. As the drug made its way through John’s veins, the man purred one last thing. “My name is Riley Fitzpatrick. And I will have Sherlock, if I have to pry him from your cold, dead hands.” And then blackness filled his vision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back and John keeps falling asleep! So a typical day in John's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second chapter of Sherlock's Second Biggest Fan. Sorry it took us so long to do but we've had a few motivational problems. So we hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is welcomed!
> 
> Ta for now~!
> 
> Chibidemon15

John awoke slowly to a steady beeping noise. He tried to hold onto the last few threads of sleep as he reached for the button on his alarm clock, but his arm caught on something. After a few blissful moments of ignorance, reality snapped back into place and he jerked up, causing sharp pains to slice through his abdomen. He froze, breathing heavily through his teeth. The heart monitor was beeping frantically and soon a nurse appeared at the side of the bed with a clipboard. He gripped her arm, panicked, and demanded to know where he was and how he got there.

He couldn't imagine he looked all that frightening dressed in a hospital gown and incapable of moving from his bed, but the nurse paled and stammered out a reply.

"S-sir, we just found you on the steps of the entrance a few days ago! It looked like you had been crawling for miles, your hands were so scuffed up.You had lost a lot of blood. You almost didn't make it through surgery." The terrified look in her eyes softened with something akin to pity. John hated it. "Naturally, we called the police. They should be here soon to take your statement." She took out the pen from behind her ear. "By the way, I need your name. You didn't have any identification on you."

John looked at his chart. The space where the name was supposed to be was filled out with"John Doe". He laughed dryly. "Well, you weren't far off."

He answered her standard procedure questions mindlessly, letting them wash over him as he contemplated the events of the past few days.

_What happened? Why did he let me go?_

John couldn't decide if he should be relieved to be free or worried that Riley would come after him again. He decided he was more confused than anything. He had never even heard of this Riley until the lunatic had captured him and started ranting about his "precious, beautiful Sherlock" and how John would never deserve him. Besides calling Sherlock "precious", the kid was definitely a few plumbs short of a fruit pie. There was a look in his eyes, a sort of _wrongness_ about him that chilled John to the bone. It eerily reminded him of Moriarty, but he knew without a doubt that Moriarty was dead. Though, he’d thought the same thing about Sherlock, and look how that turned out. The nurse confirmed that his brain was fully functioning and, after injecting him with some form of sedative, patted him on the shoulder and wished him sweet dreams.

_Fat bloody chance._

\---------------------------------(: SxJ :)------------------------------------------

A shuffling sound snapped John out of sleep, muscles clenched and ready to attack. He realized time had passed. The nurse was no longer in the room and there was a dark shape in the corner of his eye. John focused on the figure and his eyes widened, letting out a small gasp.

"S-Sherlock!” his voice caught as dozens of emotions raced through him. Relief, hurt, anger, shock, and finally something cold and hard that settled in the center of his chest.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. He wanted to simultaneously hug him and punch him in the face, but was restricted from doing either because of his injuries. He settled for clenching his fists by his sides and staring into blue-green-grey eyes that betrayed nothing.

“John.” Sherlock said evenly, and god was that baritone a shock. John had thought he would never hear it again. Sherlock’s face was carefully blank. "I need you to remember as much as you possibly can about whoever kidnapped you."

John scoffed. He was here for the case. Of course he was. “So that’s it then? No 'hello John, how’ve you been for the past three years?’ Me? Oh, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Just feeling a bit shocked because, crazy story, my best friend, who I thought was dead by the way, turned up today and, surprise! He’s actually been alive this whole time!” He rubbed at his eyebrows, suddenly tired. “I knew I was kidding myself when I thought you cared about me, but Jesus Sherlock, I haven’t even been conscious for five minutes”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, eyes briefly flicking to John’s as if seeking guidance. “Not good?”

The familiar question surprised him, but he barked out a joyless laugh. “Yeah, a bit.”

Sherlock paused and, for the first time since John had met him, seemed speechless.

Silence filled the room, heavy with tension. “Why couldn’t you just tell me?” John asked quietly, hurt seeping into his tone despite his best efforts.

Sherlock straightened his shoulders and looked at John, locking him in an intense stare that he was just starting to get used to again.

“Because at some point, no matter the danger, you would have followed me.” Sherlock said, and it sounded like a mantra, like something he had repeated to himself over and over. “I couldn’t allow that. Besides, I needed everyone to believe I was dead and your acting skills are absolutely dreadful.”

Anger welled up in John’s chest. “I don’t care if I couldn't act my way out of a paper bag, it wasn't your decision to make! And since when have you allowed me to do anything? I'm not a fucking damsel in distress, Sherlock! I can handle myself.” He sat up in the hospital bed, ignoring the wires and tubes scattered across his body. "And follow you where? You haven't told me anything! What the hell have you been doing for the past three years?"

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth. "We should really focus on-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, are my 'feelings' getting in the way of your puzzle?" John spat.

"If you would just let me-" Sherlock's voice rose for the first time since their reunion and John felt a sharp thrill of triumph

“Yes, yes, It’s all about Sherlock and his little puzzles and games! Just ignore the stupid sideckick. He must be an idiot. Who would be dumb enough to trust _Sherlock Holmes_!” John sneered. “God forbid you even try to care, to lower that fucking wall of yours JUST ONCE-”

“I DID IT FOR YOU!” Sherlock roared, and John froze. Sherlock let out a breath. "Everything. All of it. For you three." John focused on Sherlock, really looking at him for the first time since he woke up. At first glance, he looked put together, not a hair out of place. But his expression was haggard and worn, if you looked closely. Despite the familiar coat, he looked different than John remembered. He was older. Well, of course he was older, but he actually _looked_ older instead of appearing to be frozen in time at 25 (When they had lived together, John had been convinced he used some sort of anti-aging cream and fruitlessly scoured the bathroom for proof of its existance). The innocent 12 year old quality was all but gone, and his hair was sprinkled with gray. Barely noticeable, but it was there. There was something behind his eyes, some sort of mental anguish that made him appear haunted, as if he had seen horrors beyond comprehension. John had seen that look many times. In Afghanistan.

“Moriarty threatened your life. Unless I jumped, he would have had you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade assassinated. I wasn't about to stand by and watch you all die." John was stunned. Sherlock lifted his head. "I don't regret it. If I had to do it again, I would make exactly the same descision. It was the solution with the best possible outcome." That sounded more like the Sherlock John knew and..... but still, he was shocked that Sherlock would have given up his work, his city, and his reputation, just for the lives of three people. He had always been so callous about death, firm in the belief that caring was a mistake. John sighed, emotionally drained. He didn't know what to think anymore. All of his emotions were chasing each other around and around and John was too exhausted to figure them out. He slumped backwards onto the bed, rubbing his hands down his face. He considered Sherlock, shoulders slightly curled into himself as if expecting a blow, but he stared defiantly back at John, as unrepentant and stubborn as he remembered.

"First a master criminal gets a brain-crush on you, then THIS psychopath decides to worship the ground you walk on. Why do you always attract the weirdos?" He joked lightly, attempting to lighten the shadows that haunted Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock cracked half a smile, straightening up just a little.

"They must be attracted to my 'massive intellect'." John huffed out a laugh, then a thought occurred to him.

"Were you... watching me as I slept?"

"I find it conducive to thought." Sherlock mumbled, focusing intently on the poster to the side of the bed depicting the digestive system. John snorted with a familiar sort of fondness. But it was enveloped in something strange and unforgiving. John knew that Sherlock had a perfectly good reason to leave. But he couldn't help feeling betrayed. There would still be a few cracks and they would have to work on gaining back the trust between them, but in this moment, with Sherlock here alive, the room filled with his presence, John found it hard pressed to be anything but greatful. All he needed now was for Sherlock to tell him what he’d been doing for the last three years and maybe he would be able to get past Sherlock lying to him. He looked over at Sherlock who was now deducing his nurse within an inch of her life. He didn't even notice that she had come in. They must have him on some pretty good drugs. The poor woman rushed out with tears in her eyes and Sherlock threw himself into the chair by his bedside, looking quite pleased with himself.

“Oi. They have clearance to throw you out, you know.” John warned, but with no real anger. He laid back on the hospital bed, feeling his muscles relax. He was constantly aware of Sherlock. He could hear him shifting around in the uncomfortable chair, and it was... soothing. He managed to slip into a light doze (again) and heard someone else enter the room. _probably security_ he thought sleepily. God, he was sleeping a lot. Probably the drugs. As he dozed off, the last thing he was conscious of was the faint touch of fingers in his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. If anyone has any ideas for the story they'd be happily welcomed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YAYAYAYAY!!!! Greg's POV!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! we got distracted by life and our own laziness so please forgive us. Anyway here is the next chapter!

Greg Lestrade was man who had seen many things in his career as an enforcer of the law. When he was just a rookie in the force, he’d seen parents who’d butchered their own children and brothers that savagely ripped each other apart. As time went on and he rose higher in the ranks, the novelty of gruesome crimes wore off. But it had still unsettled a very small part of him that still cringed at crime scenes when he been called in to see his friend (because no matter what people said, John was his friend) shredded by a madman who claimed to worship Sherlock as a God (the daft bugger! Who in their right mind would worship Sherlock?). Donovan had promptly emptied the contents of her stomach (something he hadn't seen her do in a very long time) when they had walked into a room adjacent to the one John had been held in and saw a message written out for Sherlock in the bodies of children.

‘Come Play With Us’ it read, blood still oozing out of the stab wounds that littered their small bodies, the skin around the wounds bruised and tinted blue. The red blood stained the pristine, white cloth the murderer had dressed them in, positioned just right in the form of twisted art. And Greg had never felt more hatred for a killer than he did right now. How anyone could slaughter children to catch the attention of a dead man was beyond him and it sickened him to his core.

“Sir, I think you need to see this….” Donovan’s voice dragged Greg’s attention away from his thoughts to her. She still looked green around the gills but with a flick her head she led him out of the room with the children to another that held even more bodies who were much, much older than the last. The young and the elderly. God, what is wrong with this creep!

“Dear God!” he hissed, voicing his thoughts, “How many did he kill! How many people have died because of this crazy man’s whims? HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE BEEN TAKEN WITHOUT US NOTICING!” His roar caught the attention of his men, all of whom looked away almost immediately. They, too, couldn't believe how a mass slaughter of this magnitude could have possibly been overlooked. They felt despondent, a pang of failure ricocheting in their chest at every body they saw.

“They were homeless, you know. ” A familiar baritone drawled, saying (with only the tone of his voice, damn him) how stupid and incompetent he thought they were. Greg could feel himself holding in air as he slowly turned to the speaker.

For about fifteen seconds Greg contemplated punching the git in his smug mouth, hopefully breaking one of those ridiculous cheekbones with the force. Then the reality of it, of Sherlock being alive, hit him straight in the chest.

“....” Was the only thing to come out of his mouth. His mind was blank and he was sure he was gaping like a goldfish. Luckily he could count on Anderson to have something stupid to say.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE? AREN'T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD?” Anderson sputtered, breaking the silence in the room. A few heads whipped around in his direction, surprised at the deafening sound of Anderson’s voice.

“Hmm…. Tried it. Found it quite…what’s the word…. BORING. Now please leave Anderson. I've not seen your face in a while and the sheer stupidity of it is throwing me off.”

“YEAH WELL YOUR FACE IS EVEN MORE STUPID, STUPID FACE,” retorted Anderson, snapping Lestrade back to reality. Lestrade once again questioned why Anderson was even a forensic specialist but remembered that he was usually decent when not in the company of Sherlock.

Anderson stomped off to the other room, obviously thinking that he had the last word. Greg snapped his eyes back to Sherlock, seeing the triumphant look that crossed his too pale face. He looked gaunt, unhealthy, but undeniably alive.

“I- Sherlock, where the hell have you been?” Greg growled. Sherlock snorted at him, not particularly enjoying Greg’s show of emotion. Greg could care less about what the man thought, more interested in what he’d been doing for the last 3 years.

“That doesn't matter now, Lestrade! There’s a case and I intend to solve it, seeing how your incompetent lackeys couldn't even solve their way out of a paper bag.”

Greg opened his mouth to defend his men, but Sherlock was already strolling away, his coat dramatically billowing behind him. Bloody typical. God he’d missed that pompous arse. Sometimes he couldn't understand how John put up with-

“Wait!” Greg threw his hands out as if to grab for Sherlock, not that it would have worked considering Sherlock was almost out of the room.

With a put-upon sigh, Sherlock spun on his heel, coat flaring out (dramatically, of course). “What now, Lestrade? What could possibly be more important-”

“John.” That one word stopped Sherlock mid-rant, causing stormy-grey eyes to narrow on him. Something changed in Sherlock’s whole demeanor. Greg never thought Sherlock was a very intimidating person before, more annoying to him than anything. But in that moment, Greg felt terrified. The shadows under Sherlock’s eyes seemed to become more pronounced, contrasting with the unhealthy paleness of his skin. There was a sort of desperation about him, as if he were capable of anything if it would achieve his means. He seemed almost inhuman, enough that a few officers near him scurried away, and Greg suddenly wanted to know what he had been doing for the past three years that had put that haunted look in his eyes.

“What,” Sherlock ground out, his teeth glinting menacingly in the spotty light, “is wrong with John?”

“Uh. He, well. The man who did all of this, he was after you. So he thought the best way to get to you was through John. John.... he doesn't look good, Sherlock. I think-"

"What have I told you about thinking, Lestrade? We wouldn't want you hurt yourself, now would we?" With that said, the wanker stalked out, snarling at anyone who got to close. Greg hoped for the sake of the little sanity Sherlock had left, this madman was caught soon and John recovered. Because if neither of those things happened, well, God help them all.

\---------------------

Greg felt like such a creeper staring at Sherlock who was gazing at John’s slack face. He wanted to make himself known but Sherlock looked to be in deep thought and he needed to give the poor man this one moment before everything fell apart. He let out a sigh and slowly ambled down the hospital wing. He nodded at a few doctors and nurse who hurried by on their way. He soon found himself in a cab heading towards the New Scotland Yard building. He let the cab’s rocking lull him into to a dreamless sleep.


End file.
